


White Flour

by andchaos



Series: Destiel Oneshots (for a series of tumblr prompts) [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:08:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchaos/pseuds/andchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas can't make pancakes, but that's okay. Dean's happy to help make a mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Flour

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt:  
> "morning after. dean makes pancakes. cas tries to help. both end up with more flour on them than in the bowl."

There was something really fucking awesome about Cas in his old band t-shirts. Something that rang in a deep, unexplored vista of Dean Winchester, a strangely possessive side of him that usually said things like, _This is a happy memory for you? This was one of the worst nights of my life!_ and _We’re family. We need you. I need you_ ,and which right now was growling, _Mine_.

 

The only thing better than Castiel in his old band t-shirts was Castiel in his old sweatpants and nothing else. This was especially true when Dean walked into the empty bunker kitchen that morning, when the place was empty—Sam and Kevin off on a cross-country recovery of old records that presented the perfect opportunity for Dean to bring Cas home for just one night—and Castiel was facing away from him, busy with something on the counter. The sweats were slung low and Dean could see pretty much everything, from the angry red scratch marks stretching down his back—was that from the car ride over or in the hallway from the living room or in his room against the door? He couldn’t remember—to the livid bruise stretching across his admittedly mouthwatering hipbones. His hair was still mussed obscenely from a mix of Dean’s hands and the pillow he’d slept on, and he was only wearing one sock.

 

Dean leaned against the door frame, silently appreciating the view, until Castiel suddenly said, “Are you going to watch me all morning or are you going to help? I’m surprisingly bad at this.”

 

Dean laughed and pushed off from the wall, sauntering over and stationing himself beside his frustrated boyfriend. “Depends. What are you doing?”

 

“Making pancakes,” grunted Castiel, sloshing the large wooden spoon around the bowl so hard that more white powder fell onto the countertop. “This wasn’t as difficult when I was an angel.”

 

“Yeah, well, you used to zap off for fresh ingredients. Now you’re stuck with the mix.” Dean picked up the box and shook it for emphasis. “Betty Crocker, though. Gotta love it.”

 

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Just help me, Dean.”

 

“Right,” he said, clapping his hands together and casting around for a new bowl. “We’re gonna need to start from scratch. You suck at this. Did you use all the eggs?”

 

Fortunately, he hadn’t. Dean dumped Cas’s experimental mush with a pointed look and set the bowl back down after rinsing it out; he was strangely, immaculately clean in his kitchen, and he was going to do this right. He ordered Castiel to turn on the stovetop to the appropriate temperature while he retrieved the measuring cups that Cas had somehow overlooked and began pouring out the appropriate ingredients.

 

Castiel stood beside him for a moment, watching intently, before intoning, “I want to help.”

 

The plaintive look he was casting seriously lessened Dean’s resolve, but more than that was the “I’m all but useless” that flashed through his mind, and he forced a grin. “Sure, baby. Grab that. No, that. Yeah. Pour it into this cup and dump it in the bowl. Be careful, it shakes out quick—Dude!”

 

To be fair, he couldn’t be too mad; Castiel had apparently been taking lessons from Sam as far as puppy dog eyes went, because he looked like someone had run over his fucking baby. Dean just laughed and grabbed a handful of spilled mix off the counter, running it deliberately down the side of Castiel’s face.

 

“I think you missed a little.”

 

“Dean!” protested Castiel, but Dean, now laughing hysterically, had already taken more and run his fingers through Cas’s hair, streaking the messy strands with white flakes. Cas narrowed his eyes playfully and lunged at him, pushing him back against the counter and leaving snow-colored handprints across Dean’s chest. Eyes crinkling, Dean shoved back; Cas staggered away, but at this point Dean had given up all pretense of adulthood and was throwing handfuls of their failed breakfast at his quickly-retreating boyfriend, who dodged around the counter, only to come around the other side, grab the entire bowl, and dump it over Dean’s head.

 

He fell back, grinning, as Dean spit the batter out of mouth. Dean smirked, nothing to lose now, and tackled Castiel to the ground. They landed in a large puff of white, which cleared to reveal them half-wrestling on the ground. Dean quickly pinned Castiel’s arms above his head with one hand, his other scooping batter off his own body and smearing it over Castiel’s bare chest, arms, neck—anywhere he could reach.

 

“You missed a spot,” said Castiel serenely, staring up at him unblinkingly. Dean paused, confused, and immediately began scanning for possible untouched areas within arm’s length. Smiling again, Castiel deftly pulled one of his hands free, threaded it through Dean’s hair, and pulled him down for a kiss.

 

“Did I get it?” he asked when he pulled away, blinking up cheekily at the hunter, who rolled his eyes and leaned down to kiss him again. It was chaste, playful, and lasted only a few seconds; he quickly sprang to his feet and offered a hand down, pulling a disappointed-looking Cas up beside him.

 

“C’mon, babe,” said Dean, winking and wrapping an arm around his waist so that his fingers could dance idly across his hip, “I think we have to get cleaned up.”

 

Fuck breakfast. There was plenty of batter that needed attending to, all over his body—and between Cas’s tongue and the showerhead, he was pretty sure he’d be spotless in time for lunch.


End file.
